


The Yowch Yield

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: First Misses [25]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-21 06:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20688689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Yeah, clutching at straws on the titles now. The end of the alphabet is hard!





	The Yowch Yield

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, clutching at straws on the titles now. The end of the alphabet is hard!

Robin looked up as Strike limped slowly back towards her. He sat down heavily next to her and sighed.

“Not good news?”

He grunted. “Depends. It’s fractured, but not all the way through, and only one bone. So yes, I have to have a cast. But probably only for three or four weeks, and nothing needs pinning.”

Robin considered. “Well, it could be worse,” she said cautiously.

Strike snorted. “Yeah. But now I have to wait for fracture clinic to see me. And the triage nurse wants to examine my knee again, and recheck me for concussion because I hit my head.”

He took a deep breath, turning to her. “Robin, I’m going to be hours. Go home, please.”

She set her jaw. “Nope.”

“Robin—”

“Cormoran.” She fixed him with a steely blue-grey stare. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But—”

“Want to arm-wrestle over it?”

Against his will, Strike laughed. Robin grinned.

“Seriously. I’m fine. Nothing else to do this evening. Tomorrow I’ll sort the schedule and rearrange next week at work. Sam will happily pick up some more hours.” She hesitated. “Do you want me to ring anyone? Nick and Ilsa, Lucy?”

“Good God, no, they’ll all come down. I’ll ring them tomorrow. Or, you know, when it’s healed.”

Robin shook her head, smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I know.”

There was a pause that stretched. They sat. Just as Robin was beginning to wonder if she should fill the silence - an odd feeling, they’d always been comfortable to sit in quiet together before - Strike’s name was called again and he was off to fracture clinic.

He was gone a long time. The waiting room was largely empty now. Robin balled up her coat again on the chair next to her and slumped down onto it, resting her head. It had been a long evening, and three and a half glasses of wine. She was tired.

...

“Robin?” He’d spent several minutes gazing down at her, unwilling to wake her, watching the rise and fall of her shoulder as she breathed, the long rose-gold eyelashes resting on her cheek.

Strike didn’t normally go for drugs, but fracture clinic had given him a couple of quite strong painkillers so that they could gently ease his wrist into position to be plastered. Now that it no longer hurt, the slightly floating, detached feeling was quite pleasant. He was clutching his coat, a small bottle of pills for tonight and a prescription for tomorrow in his left hand. His right rested in a sling close to his chest, the cast weirdly heavy.

“Robin?” he said again. She stirred, and then came to abruptly and sat up, blinking.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

_You looked beautiful. _The words were too close to the surface now, loosened by drugs. Strike carefully said nothing.

Robin stood, pushing her hair back, smoothing her top down. “You all done? I’ll call a taxi. What time is it?”

Strike, arms strapped or full, shrugged his left shoulder. “Let’s go outside and ring. I really need a smoke.”

Robin nodded, non-judgmental as always, and they made their way outside. She took his coat from him, put the pills in her handbag, found his cigarettes in his coat pocket and passed them to him. Then she grinned.

“Sorry.” She took the packet back, extracted a cigarette and passed it to him. “Where’s your lighter?” she asked, hunting in his other coat pocket and not finding it. She went back to the first pocket. Nothing.

She glanced up at him, and he was frozen, pink-cheeked. “What?”

“It’s in my pocket.”

“No, it’s not, I just checked.”

Strike went pinker. “No, my jeans pocket.”

“Then— Ah.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Strike passed the cigarette back towards her, but his longing gaze lingered on it just a little.

“Right pocket? Front?”

He stared at her. “Robin—”

“Don’t overthink it. You’ll make it awkward.” His jeans weren’t skin-tight. She stepped up to him and slid her left hand into his pocket before he could object, closing around the lighter and pulling it out swiftly.

Strike turned a half-yelp into a cough. Before he could say anything, Robin was proffering the flame. Momentarily frozen, he had two choices. He chose to brazen it out, put the cigarette in his mouth and leaned to draw on the flame.

“Thanks,” he muttered, and Robin nodded. She slipped the lighter into her own coat pocket.

“I’ll call a taxi,” she said, and turned away, matter-of-fact, pulling her phone out and thumbing through the contacts. Strike stood and smoked his cigarette and decided to file away the feeling of the back of Robin’s hand sliding down his thigh to think about later. Much later. Much, much later.

Floating pleasantly as the drugs kicked in further, he idly listened to the music of her voice as she ordered the taxi and gave their location. She was ordering it for Denmark Street. He supposed she would go on to her flat afterwards. He vaguely wondered where his keys were, half hoping and half fearing that they were in the same pocket his lighter had been in.

It didn’t take long for the taxi to arrive. They climbed in, Strike on the left and Robin behind the driver. She looked across at him as she did up her seat belt. He hadn’t done his.

“It’s fine,” he said before she could open her mouth.

“It’s London traffic,” she replied firmly, and reached across him to grab the belt and pull it over him. He could smell her hair as she leaned. For an instant he imagined bending his neck just the slightest bit, burying his nose in silken tresses that smelled of apples and _Robin._

In a moment she had sat back and was clicking the belt into place. He really hoped he hadn’t actually leaned in to her to breathe her, natural though it had seemed. _Get a grip, Strike. Make some sensible conversation._

“Was talking to Wardle about his brother,” he heard himself say as the taxi pulled away from the hospital.

“Oh, of course!” Robin’s voice was soft, sad. “I forget what he’s been though. He doesn’t show it.”

Strike looked across at her. “None of us do.”

Robin gazed back at him. “No. I suppose we don’t,” she said quietly.

Woozy, Strike thought of his mother. He thought of what Robin had been through. He thought of Wardle. He thought of Nick and Ilsa.

“D’you think everyone’s got some pain they carry around and everyone else just can’t see it?”

Robin smiled. “That was a remarkably philosophical thought from Mr Grumpy over there,” she teased gently. “But yeah, I reckon they probably do. A lot of them, anyway.”

She thought for a moment as the car swayed along. “It’s why I try to be kind,” she said. “You never know what place of pain someone is coming from.”

“You’re the kindest person I know,” Strike said, and Robin wondered if it was tiredness or medication that was making him sound slightly slurred. “Well, one of the kindest. Ilsa is pretty amazing too. But I bet she’s badass in a courtroom.”

Robin giggled at the incongruous word. “Are you saying I’m not as badass as Ilsa?”

He gazed at her seriously for a long moment.

“What?” A soft smile pulled at her mouth under his scrutiny.

“Tryna decide who I’d be more scared of, if it came to it.”

“And?”

He pretended to give it more serious consideration. “Well, you have fought off actual criminals. So I should say you.” Then he grinned. “But personally I’m more scared of Ilsa. She knows too much.”

Robin laughed. “I’ll have to prise information out of her on curry nights.”

He pulled a cheeky face at her. “She won’t say. I know too much too.”

Robin slanted an eyebrow. “More than Nick?”

Strike snorted. “Probably.”

Robin’s eyes were round. “Now I’m intrigued.”

“You’ll not get any secrets out of me.” He tapped the side of his nose knowingly.

Her eyes softened. “I should think not. I bet you’re totally trustworthy.”

The taxi swung round the next corner. Not far now. Street lights slid past them, alternately lighting up the back of the cab and plunging it into darkness again.

Strike was quiet now, just looking at her.

“What?”

“Now I’m wondering what secrets you’ve got.”

She grinned at him. “Maybe I’ll tell you, when we’ve been friends as long as you and Ilsa.”

_I don’t want you to be my friend._

Robin gazed back at him, her grin fading, wondering what she had just seen flit across his face in the dark-and-light-and-dark car. “Cormoran—”

He was leaning across to her now, and this time she wasn’t imagining it, she knew she wasn’t. This was the moment. Heart hammering, breath fluttering, she reached for him, her hand seeking him—

Strike gave an involuntary yelp of pain as she accidentally caught his wrist. She had forgotten his injury in the heat of the moment, the cast tucked against his chest. Gasping an apology, Robin snatched her hand back.

“Shit, Cormoran, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine.” But his jaw was clenched.

“Cormoran—”

“Here we are,” the cabbie said cheerfully, pulling up on Denmark Street. Strike reached across himself and unclipped his seat belt.

“Wait, I’ll come round.” Robin scrambled out of the taxi and hurried round the back. Strike had opened the door and was manoeuvring himself clumsily out of the cab. He was obliged to accept her help to get him upright, with one arm and half a knee out of action, which well and truly killed the mood as far as he was concerned.

He stood on the pavement while Robin thanked and paid the cabbie, feeling woozy and out of sorts and in pain, and wishing he hadn’t suddenly thought it was a good idea to try to kiss her. What had he been thinking? Too many painkillers.

The cab pulled away, and the two detectives stood on Denmark Street and looked at one another. Robin couldn’t see any trace in Strike’s face of what she thought she’d seen in the taxi. Had she imagined it?

“Let’s get you upstairs,” she said. Strike nodded.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what happened with that conversation in the taxi. They just went off on a waffle 😂
> 
> Nearly done!!!!!


End file.
